Why Won't He Shut Up?
by Jay Nice
Summary: "No one cares for you, you murderer liar traitor, you useless thing, you killed him..." He's plagued by the voices, they never leave him alone, always criticize him, always scream in his head. Maybe it's just time to give in, let them take over... Unrelated boys, Hitchhiker AU featuring Schizophrenic!Dean, Homeless!Dean, Charitable!Sam, and Michael?


**This one's a little strange, but hey, strange is good, right?**

**It's a Hitchhiker AU, featuring Schizophrenic!Dean and Charitable!Sam. They're unrelated, so if you suspect Sam is Dean's long lost brother, he isn't. Sorry to disappoint.**

**Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sam and Dean. I'm just a girl who wishes she did.**

**Warnings: Mentions of drugs and alcohol, kinda suicidey theme... That's all I'm gonna say.**

* * *

><p>He couldn't have chosen a worse highway to hitchhike off of. There wasn't a car in sight, making his chances of getting a ride pitifully slim. He should have known, this part of town was empty come six pm, much less eleven. This part of town? Well, he didn't actually know where he was. Hopefully still in California. All he knew was that he'd been wandering all day and hadn't found any kind of civilization. This highway (no, more like Route 66) was deserted, and any cars that passed through were inconsiderate and most likely didn't even glance his way. No wonder. He felt awful, probably looked worse. His beard was long overgrown and un-groomed, giving him a ragged look. His clothes were ridden with holes, rips, and unidentifiable stains. Some were blood, some other bodily fluids, some alcohol. It's not like he could wash his clothes or anything. His only hope at this point was wishing that the nearest town had a soup kitchen open so that maybe he could fill his stomach. He hadn't eaten in... six days? Seven? Man, he couldn't remember. Probably longer than that, to be honest. He'd been living off whatever scraps he could find, whether that be the last drop of a stray bottle of whiskey or a shred of lettuce from a discarded burger. As much as he hated it, it was life. It had been life for just about ten years now. And now it was raining. That was just wonderful. The shrill pins of water stabbed through his jacket as if he were shirtless instead of wearing two layers. The wind didn't make things much better. He really needed a new jacket... If only he could get to town so he could maybe find an old discarded one that could be worn overtop this one. That would be nice. Winter was hitting Cali quite harshly this year, much to his dismay. It was getting down to the forties at night, which was insane for California, and the usual rain was unrelenting. Usually he could scrounge up enough to feed himself for a few weeks around this time of year, but he was strung high and dry right now. And, on top of his regular crappy life, he was sick. It started out with a runny nose and slight chills that could have passed as a cold, but it had progressed since then. There was no denying it now: he was sick. The cough and chest pains were almost intolerable to the point that he was seriously considering curling up on the ground and freezing to death. Dying couldn't be worse than what he was living now, right?<p>

Then, his sign from heaven came: a car was rolling slowly down the road, so slowly to suggest that the driver was tired, maybe even asleep. Was sleep driving a thing? _Sure, though it usually ends in a car crash. Maybe the poor sucker's trying to end his existence early too..._

Dang it. The voices were getting to him now. Between the liquor and the drugs he had picked up here and there, he thought it had lulled. As if his headache wasn't bad enough, now he was talking to himself again. He was probably on the urge of a panic attack. Once the voices started, they never shut up. He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the killer migraine to stop. He didn't want this, it wasn't his fault he was borderline schizophrenic.

_Yes it is, you dirty, useless thing. It's your fault you chose to save your own hide over your family, over your brother..._

"No, I didn't want to leave them, they kicked me out," he found himself muttering aloud.

_Yeah, cause you're a freaking murderer, you killed your own brother—_

"I did not!" He pulled at his hair desperately. "He...I didn't know what to do, he just—"

_Slipped? Down that hill that you told him was perfectly safe? You promised you would catch him? Well, you didn't. Jumped out of the way just for a laugh, then he was wearing a crimson halo. Cracked skull, but you didn't even call an ambulance. Buried him there and ran._

"I...he..." He was sobbing now. "I had no choice, it was too late anyway, I couldn't call an ambulance..."

_Yeah, didn't wanna have to admit that you did wrong, that you killed him..._

"Nnnn..." he keened, shaking his head rapidly. "Didn't kill him..."

_He looked up to you, and you spat in his face..._

"Hey, pal, you alright?"

He looked up and saw the car that had been traveling pulled over next to where he was sitting (Sitting? When had he sat down?). A young man was looking down at him, concern shrouding his eyes.

"I, uh, I just..." he stammered, trying to shift himself into a less pitiful position. "Rough day," he settled on, knowing that was a harsh understatement.

_Murderer, liar, traitor, murderer liar traitor murdererliartraitor..._

The man chuckled earnestly, offering him a small grin. "I can tell." His voice was soft and kind, not loud and accusatory like the one that always yelled in his head. "No offense, man, but you look awful. Need a ride?"

He nodded automatically, fumbling to get to the guy's passenger door and settling into the leather seat stiffly without invitation. It felt nice to relax for the first time in days, even if it was for only a few minutes. The man smiled at him politely, giving him a brief once-over, probably trying to determine if he was a serial killer or not. He must have settled on the latter, for he said, "Where are you heading?"

That was a good question. "Nearest city?" he offered quietly, figuring that's where the man must be heading at this late hour.

The guy nodded and turned his ignition. Oh, that heater felt nice... "Palo Alto it is. Good thing I was just on my way there." The guy's hair was freakishly long, he realized, almost touching his shoulders. He had soft, boyish looks, and was probably no older than twenty. Even sitting down, he was extremely tall. He wore a jacket, emblazoned with some university initials that he should have recognized...

"You're at Stanford?" he managed to spit out, gazing at the guy. "Nice choice, my baby brother used to want to go there." The words spilled out of his mouth unexpectedly. Dean blamed it on the illness when he began to tear up.

"That's sweet, it's a good school. I'm pre-law right now." The man looked pretty smug at this accomplishment, so he tried to smile at him. It was tough smiling when the memory of his brother came up... "Oh, uh, my name's Sam," the guy said. "Just in case you were wondering."

"Dean."

The car started with a dull purr, and they rode in silence for a few moments. The voices were unrelenting, and Dean found himself squinting and resting his forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window. His lungs were rumbling with every breath, but he fought the urge to cough. He needed to get to town, and didn't want Sam kicking him out cause he was contaminating his car.

_Murderer, killer, you killed him. Stupid boy, why can't you do anything right? How could you, traitor, liar..._

"Shut up..." he growled between clenched teeth, unable to help it. "Please..."

"What's wrong?" Sam was probably staring now. He could feel the scrutiny in his gaze. "Dude, you look like you're about to puke. Should I stop?"

Dean took in thin breaths. No, he couldn't cough, not now. "'M fiiiiine..." he wheezed, before he gave in and erupted in a coughing fit. His chest was heaving sporadically, and he was surprised that he was still conscious. The pain was burning, unbearable. His throat was raw, and no breaths came in. The coughing, and the voices...

_YOUKILLEDHIMYOUMURDERERYOUSTUPIDBOYYOUTRAITORYOULIARHETRUSTEDYOU!_

It was too much. Dean was ready to give up. Give in to the lack of oxygen, to the voices ridiculing him, to the raging fever he knew he was sporting. It was all too hard, why did he have to keep bearing the weight that was crushing him the further he carried it?

Then the coughing stopped as abruptly as it had begun, and he became aware of a hand on his back. Sam? Was it Sam?

_Of course it's not Sam, you imbecile. He's not going to help a useless thing like you..._

No, that wasn't true. It was Sam who was rubbing his back, trying to circulate the air through his lungs. It was working, he was slowly gaining control of his breathing again. His chest was aching, but not near as severe now that the worst part was over. Sam was saying things, maybe soothing things, but Dean couldn't hear them. Not over the voices...

_Stop fighting, no one will miss you, you useless thing, no one wants, you die and no one will care..._

It was all so convincing, but that strong hand on his back kept him grounded. He could keep going. It wasn't going to kill him. He'd survived this long, he could do it again.

"...good now?" Sam's voice came back into focus, firm and believable. Dean found himself clinging to that strength, wishing he himself could have some as he was sitting here, wasting away.

Dean's head was nodding, a very minute movement, but it was there. He was sad when Sam took his hand away and turned back to driving, which had stopped for a moment as he'd pulled over to help Dean.

Dean slumped against the seat, too exhausted to do anything. Tears were rolling down his face, but whether from the illness or the voices or the renewed memories of his brother, he couldn't tell.

"Hey, Dean?" Sam asked, his voice cautious this time. "I can drop you off at the hospital. You're in no condition to be wandering outside. It's almost forty out, and I think the rain's supposed to get worse tonight—"

"No hospital," he said. That was the last thing he wanted right now. He was managing on his own. His last hospital trip many years ago had been traumatizing, and he didn't want to repeat that experience.

_You're dying, no one will miss you, you murderer, just stop fighting, Sam doesn't care about you, no one does, you killer liar traitor..._

"Gnnh," he gasped, a searing pain erupting in his head. As if his headache wasn't bad already. It was pounding, as if something inside was trying to get out. "Gah, make it stop..."

"Make what stop? Dean, are you alright?" Sam sounded frantic now, worried even.

Worried?

_He's not worried, he doesn't care about you, just die already..._

"Shut... up..." He grimaced, clawing wildly at his skull. Why couldn't they just leave him alone?

_Because I'm a part of you Dean. You can't kill the devil if the devil is inside you._

A stinging sensation erupted on his face. His vision was blurry from the steady flow of tears.

_Though I wouldn't exactly call myself the devil... He's probably more merciful than I am._

He felt that the car had stopped again, and looked over to Sam, who he didn't realize was holding him by the shoulders. He shrunk away from the touch. It felt wrong, he hadn't experienced a good-natured human touch in forever...

"Dean, snap out of it," he ordered.

_Just like your parents ordered you to leave and never return, just like your brother ordered you to catch him..._

"It won't shut up," he whimpered. (_Whimper? You baby, you can't freaking whimper!_) "I can't get it to be quiet."

"What, Dean? I can try to help."

_There's no helping you now. He can't help you, no one can, you murderer liar traitor..._

"Nooo..." he moaned. He was shaking, the voices were getting louder, harsher, they were trying to tear him apart. His chest hurt, his throat hurt, his head hurt. His chest especially. It felt like someone was breaking all of his ribs and twisting them around inside of him.

"Dean! That's it, you either talk to me or you're going to the hospital."

He could barely hear Sam, much less respond. His vision was darkening around the edges, the all familiar feeling of blacking out overcoming him. He didn't want to fall unconscious, but that was how he had been getting all his sleep as of late. Passing out after too many drinks was normally a daily occurrence. Drugs sweetened the deal whenever he could obtain them. They helped dull the voices, the pain. When he didn't have sleeping aid, they were overwhelming.

_It's too late now. Good night, Dean. I'll see you in your dreams._

No, not now. He couldn't pass out now, not in front of Sam, he would take him to the hospital.

_Too bad, Dean. When do you ever get what you want?_

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><p>John Winchester was right after all, a much as Sam hated to admit it. Sam was far too caring for his own good. He had that soft spot that his hardened marine father didn't have, the one that most likely came from his mom. He loved to take in stray puppies that were found on the side of the road, tried to donate blood whenever he could, and always helped out volunteering any time he was needed. John called him a girl on more than one occasion. Not really, he was just more compassionate than his father tended to be. Sam always loved this trait of his, always figured that it was one thing that made him better than his father. But now, with the obviously homeless guy passed out on his couch, he was wondering if it could be a flaw.<p>

The guy, Dean, had looked so utterly pitiful. He'd been sitting on the side of the road, curled up and clutching his head. He would have looked dead if not for the shivers that wracked his body. So, Sam had offered him a ride. That was the sensible thing to do. The guy had a sort of "mass murderer" look to him, but he looked so weak that Sam figured he probably couldn't lift a gun if he wanted. If he had been shirtless, Sam suspected he could have counted each of his ribs. His skin was horribly jaundiced, making Sam worried about the man's drinking habits. Color like that normally appeared during liver failure... But Sam didn't mention any of his health problems. It wasn't his business. He'd agreed to drive him to Palo Alto, where he had been heading in the first place. Then, the coughing and talking started. He was saying things like "shut up" and "no," but Sam wasn't saying anything. His stomach dropped. This guy had mental issues along with all the crap he was going through. Just wonderful.

He was asleep now, thank goodness. Well, maybe more like unconscious. His brow was furrowed tightly, and he was mumbling incoherently in his sleep. Sam reminded himself to drink an extra beer tonight when he got home.

Dean really needed a hospital. He sounded like his dad had when he'd had pneumonia a few years ago, and if it was indeed that, there was nothing Sam could do for him.

That is, until he got to town. The road he needed to take to the hospital was flooded. It wasn't an unusual occurrence here for that to happen; Palo Alto usually had very wet winters. But there was no detour around, so Sam begrudgingly made his way back to campus. Maybe the college clinic had some antibiotics that could be used.

So that's how Sam was back in his dorm, watching as Dean slept in their pullout futon, and hoping he'd awaken soon so Sam could further assess the situation. Luckily, his roommate was out tonight, probably spending the night at some girl's downtown apartment as seemed to be Harry's usual form of entertainment.

"Gahh, noooo..." Dean was stirring, garbled words growing in volume. "I didn't... Shut up..."

Coughs spilled from his lips as he drifted into semi-consciousness. Judging by his overly flushed cheeks, he had a fever that hadn't broken yet. Sam knelt in front of the sleeping man, lightly touching his forehead. Oh yeah, he was roasting.

As Sam's fingers brushed his head, Dean's eyes opened and he let out a near-feral wail. His limbs flailed out, an arm catching Sam in the jaw. He fought an invisible force for some time, before he slumped down again and started to cough. It was a loud, wet cough, making Sam wince. This time, Sam wasn't sure if he should have helped. He didn't want another uppercut in the face (the guy packed a mean punch).

"Dean..." his voice trailed off, unsure of what to say. He settled with a swift, "Calm down," unable to think of anything else.

"Can't..." the man breathed out. "Hurts, stop, please..."

"What hurts?" Sam tried. "Please, Dean, I want to help you!"

"Shut up!" Dean screamed, tugging at his ears. "Shut up. shut up, shut up!"

Sam was starting to think that maybe, just maybe, this wasn't his brightest idea.

Dean was staring at Sam, pure fear filling his face. "I didn't, get away, shut up!"

Sam backed away warily. Dean was probably in a fevered daze, imagining things. However, he had a hunch that whoever he was telling to shut up wasn't just a delirium-driven madness. He was really hearing voices.

Dean slumped back into the couch, and Sam heard him whisper a single word. That single word was repeated over and over again.

_"Michael."_

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><p><em>You're useless to me, Dean. I can't keep you if you're a murderer. You killed him, you lied to him, you betrayed him. You're a monster.<em>

He was done. This was never ending. He needed a smoke. He needed a bottle of the strongest whiskey. Dang it, he needed a therapist if that was what it takes.

_The mighty Dean Campbell is surrendering, I can feel it. Your will is mine, there's no escape..._

But he couldn't keep going on like this. He was going to wear out eventually.

_Yes you are, and I look forward to taking you over._

His name was Michael. How insane, the voice had a name now? Somehow, that part didn't bother Dean that much. Actually, the fact that it now had a name was strangely soothing. It showed that it wasn't just Dean talking to himself. Micheal was still awfully accusatory, but now more dominating. Something had changed.

_I will win, Dean. You won't make it out of this alive._

There was no way Dean could win.

_You never will._

How could he?

_Surrender to me._

He was going to die.

_Of course you are, haven't we established this already?_

He couldn't take it anymore.

_Give up, give in. I'll be waiting for you on the other side._

Dean didn't know where he was, in an apartment of sorts? No, smaller than an apartment. Smaller than a motel room. Was he in college boy's dorm room?

_Heh, so maybe he did like you enough to take you home._

There was a window.

_Good boy for noticing that. You'll do fine._

The window showed treetops.

_Another great observation, we're making wonderful progress._

How much would it hurt if he just...?

_Why don't we find out, eh Dean-o?_

If he was lucky enough, this could all end.

_Luck has nothing to do with it. This is your destiny._

Was Sam talking to him? What was he saying?

_Who cares, he doesn't care about you!_

Did he? Had Sam really brought him here just to watch him die?

_Of course he did. He's just a kid who was stupid enough to give you a ride. He's enjoying your suffering._

No, that couldn't be true. On the other hand, it could very well be. Why should this random guy try to help him?

_Exactly._

Dean shook his head rapidly. He was sure Sam was speaking now, but he couldn't quite make out the words. Somehow, they sounded loud, almost frightened. Was he scared of Dean?

_I told you so. Oh Dean, of course he's scared of you! He wants you to die so you can get out of his skin._

Was Dean crying now? Yes, that must have been the wetness on his face. He didn't know why.

_Cause you're a wuss, that's why!_

He was coughing again. He couldn't breath. Dots were dancing in front of his vision.

_Suck it up, Dean. This stupid respiratory infection will kill you soon, but not right now._

A hand was on his back again. A strong, grounded hand. Was that Sam again?

_No, it's not. You're hallucinating, he doesn't care if you suffocate._

His breathing was slowly becoming steadier.

_Oh, that's too bad. I was hoping you'd quit..._

Yes, that was Sam.

_No it's not!_

"S-sam?"

_Shut your mouth!_

"Uh, yeah Dean?"

Dean couldn't respond. His eyes flickered around the dorm, resting on the window again.

_That's a good boy, kiddo. Focus on the important things in life. Or what's left of it anyway._

He could stop all of this now.

_Yes! Yes! You can do it!_

His legs were shaking. He couldn't do it.

_Yes you can! Don't make me push you!_

"Can't..." Dean breathed.

_His broken body was at the base of the hill, his head stained crimson. His pale eyes lifeless, adorably shaggy hair matted with blood. Dean was unmoving, unsure of what was happening. It had just been a joke, how did this happen...?_

Dean wanted to claw out his eyes. Not that again, anything but that.

_Dad was yelling. Mom was crying. Dean was sobbing himself. He'd been missing for five months before deciding to confront his family. Now he was going to be murdered by his own kin, he was sure..._

Dean felt like screaming, but his raw throat would not allow it.

_He was crouched across the street. His old house was looming, looking angry at him. Through a window, he could see his mom sobbing into his dad's shoulders, his dad crying as well. It was the one year anniversary since Dean had been kicked out. He was fifteen now._

If he scratched his brains out, that would certainly hurt less.

_He went to his first charity kitchen at sixteen. Older men and women were most prominent, and they all scared the crap out of him, but he was hungry. Starving, actually. He ate his share of the meal, then left. A rotten looking man met him out back, and beat him senseless._

Dean could still feel that pain.

He stole a glance at the window again. It looked so easy.

_You can do it, Dean-o. I believe in you._

His legs were strong now, he could feel it. It was three strides, maybe even two. He could do it.

_Yes you can, so just do it!_

Maybe he'd see his brother again...

_Who cares about him! You might, but just do it!_

He did it.

The window shattered, that he was sure of. His left thigh started burning, so he assumed a piece of glass was probably lodged there. The ground was coming closer, and he sighed in relief. It could be over now. Finally, he could have peace. He could be freed of all the agony

The voices could be silenced.

Everything went dark.

_Oh, but I will never be silenced, Dean. You're stuck with me for all eternity. You'll never get peace._

_See you later, Dean._

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><p>No one knew the man who plunged out of young Sam Winchester's dorm window that fateful night. Sam called him Dean, and said that he was a hitchhiker he'd picked up. The guy had serious mental problems; Sam had suspected schizophrenia and depression, along with possible pneumonia and liver problems. It was only a matter of time before he ended his life.<p>

He was cremated without question. No one knew him, he carried no identification, he bore nothing that they could use to contact his family. He was just another John Doe, except he had a name. He was quickly forgotten in the Stanford community.

Until something odd came up in his autopsy report. Something the pathologists never shared with the public.

Dean's lungs were almost completely filled with fluid, the left one verging collapse. His liver was shown to be in the early stages of failing, as well as a few other minor organs. However, that wasn't the strange thing. Those were all things Sam probably could have guessed. The odd part was his heart. It was perfectly healthy, maybe a bit worn, but would have lasted him years had he still been alive. No, that wasn't the strange part. The strange part was what was carved into the outer wall. It had many indecipherable characters on it, which should have been impossible. How could one carve their heart without it being punctured? How could one carve their heart period?

Unbeknownst to the doctors, the symbols were in Enochian. They read Michael.


End file.
